His name was Raul. At least that was the name he’d given her when she’d told him that she was going to help cover for her friend Grace. Grace was supposed to make the desserts at a bat mitzvah and she’d gotten sick—a bad stomach flu was going around and she’d asked Abigale to cover for her. They were friendly and when she could, she liked to help her friends. Raul was not her friend. And she’d bet her eyeteeth that Raul’s Italian accent wasn’t authentic. Especially since he kept dropping it when he was pissed off. Glancing over at the prep for the canapés, she paused long enough to study them, then study the mini-tarts she’d been working on. “Am I being paid to help with the canapés?” she asked mildly. He gave her a sharp-edged smile. “We believe in helping each other in this business, bellezza.” “Really?” She smiled back. “I’ll keep that in mind when I ask for help opening a door later.
